


a toast and a spirit

by michelllejones



Category: IT (2017)
Genre: A plot if you squint, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, M/M, Sonia Kaspbrak's A+ Parenting, but life still sucks!, eddie loves his friends and richie mf tozier, except for when it doesn't, pennywise was banished they are not allowed in the arena, the losers are mentioned but they arent really in it, warning: bad
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-30
Updated: 2019-04-30
Packaged: 2020-01-25 14:09:46
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 13,348
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18576067
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/michelllejones/pseuds/michelllejones
Summary: This was Richie Tozier, his best friend, the Richie he had known for a little more than half his life, the Richie that lent his Pokémon cards to him after only knowing him for two days, the Richie that watchedThe Exorcistwith him for the very first time and let Eddie cling to him through all the gory parts, that kept spare packs of Little Debbie’s Nutty Bars and S’mores Pop-tarts in his pantry just for him—it was Richie and then It Was Richie, and Eddie didn't even try to put up a fight. The battle was lost before it had even begun, and maybe Eddie didn’t want to fight anymore.





	a toast and a spirit

**Author's Note:**

> idk what this is. it started as a love letter to the losers from eddie. and then i wrote like 13.5k of mess. it's probably incoherent, but i love my kids too much to care!
> 
> this was inspired by the song "a toast and a spirit" by vacation manor!
> 
> enjoy greasies :*

There isn’t much about Derry that Eddie thinks has any kind of potential to be special, at least, not the kind of special that sticks, or the kind of special that spears your heart like a pin does a cork board, pricks your fingers like splinters on an old wooden fence, punctures your bottom lip like the ridges of your two front teeth. No, Eddie thinks, Derry isn’t any kind of special at all. It’s a small, old, worthless town that would keep him chained to a rusty steel chair for the rest of his life if it could, would take its jagged sharp and cavity rotten teeth and clamp down onto his soul, tear it to shreds and toss it to the side with the rest of the sorry lives it’s claimed before him and will claim after him. 

There have been days where Eddie wondered if he was the only person in Derry that had been shown the truth, hidden only by a thin veil draped over every house, every street, and sidewalk. In the dead of night, he has wondered if anyone had ever looked long enough to see it rear its ugly head, watched it rise up like the sun behind a valley of mountains. As he grows older, he grows curious, too, spending most days wondering who else has been exposed to the desolate roots Derry had sowed in its very own garden of animosity. His hometown has revealed to him, time and time and time again, the very foundations of despair it was built on, the cracks and fissures along it the only proof of some futile attempts to breach the boundaries enforced on its residents before him.

For a long while, he thought maybe he was alone in this knowledge, of Derry and all its terribly kept secrets. But then, by some kind of miracle, he found six other people who understood the esoteric rules of their town, and suddenly he wasn’t so alone anymore. In a world painted black and white, his friends were the splatters of color, smeared across the streets of town and on all the keep out signs, the torn up wire fences and beaten down roads. After so many days spent at the kitchen table, peering through the window, sitting idly, obediently, as all the other kids rode their bikes, raced down the hill, chased after one another; all those days wasted, wishing with all his might that his Ma would let him join them, if just for a little while—and finally, after too much time; hours, days, weeks and months, Eddie stopped asking for permission. Instead of waiting, he went, and at the first taste of freedom, he became addicted, consumed by scabbed knees, summer days spent in an open field, breathless bouts of laughter during visits to the quarry, adrenaline coursing through their veins, bruised shins from tumbling through a hole in buildings guarded by ‘No Trespassing’ signs. 

Sometimes, before, Eddie had a hard time believing that he was even alive. It might have been silly, considering he woke up everyday and ate and talked and went to school and came home like everyone else. Except, he never felt like everyone else, always felt weaker, smaller, never ran around in the grass or climbed the playground like the rest of them. All through kindergarten and first grade, Eddie’s days consisted of the same old, tired routine: wake up at seven, eat breakfast (always cream of wheat), take his pills (always laid out on the kitchen table beside his bowl), go to school, come home, rinse and repeat. By the time he was seven years old, Eddie had never had a friend, never went to anyone’s birthday party, never had a birthday party—he was alone and lonely, before he even understood what _lonely_ was. 

So the thought loomed over him, like dark clouds before a nasty storm, followed him through childhood and well into his pubescent years, sharp claws catching bare threads of his shirts every now and then. On the loneliest and coldest of nights, spent alone in his bed, he lay filled with fear, frozen by it, so afraid to move, to breathe, terrified that if he tried, he wouldn't be able to. 

Though he’d been young when his father passed, four years old and barely able to put his own shoes on, Eddie could still remember the day he felt the whole world shift. For a time, a very little and very confused Eddie wondered if he was dead, too. When he was six years old, he watched _Casper_ for the first time, and when it ended he turned to his mother and asked her if he was a ghost, too, like Casper. To which she responded by huffing and frowning, red in the face as she hurried to shut the television off and cart him out of the living room. The way her face twisted into an ugly scowl, and the sound of her voice as she scolded him for even asking her that forever burned into his mind. He would be lying if he said he dropped the idea, then, and never thought about it again. His mother’s response, or lack thereof, however, only served as the proof he needed to support his hypothesis: He was not a real boy, not living but not quite dead, either, but a ghost in his own way. 

In fact, it would not be until Bill Denbrough in Mrs. Everson’s third grade class, with his soft voice and kind smile, one that made Eddie feel like it was made just for him, that he would entertain a new concept; that maybe, just maybe, he had been alive the whole time, just not truly living. And when he met Stanley Uris the day after, who stood straighter than any other kid in their grade but had a smile that looked like the start of spring, followed closely by Richie Tozier, who came ready with a deck of frayed Pokémon cards to share and eyes the color of the Asters growing in Mr. Harringrove’s front yard, Eddie knew for sure they had to be real, because even his imagination couldn't give him the three of them.

The few years he shared just with the three of them, the four of them all together, riding bikes across town and sharing their comic books and video games and just about everything they could, were some of the first times that Eddie felt as though he actually belonged somewhere. It was never something they discussed out loud, but it wasn’t like they needed to. Eddie knew that his place was with them, together or individually. He knew he belonged with Bill as they dug around in the dirt at the Barrens, belonged with Stan as they laid in a field and watched the clouds go by, keeping count of all the birds that flew overhead, belonged with Richie in his room, as they wrestled over who would get first player, laughing so loud Maggie would have to tell them to settle down. Before them, Eddie was terrified that he would live his life friendless and entirely alone, terrified that he would end up like his mother. For too long, Eddie barely even thought that he existed, and then, like a light at the end of a morbidly dark and endlessly long tunnel, they were there, smiling and ready, as if they’d just been waiting for him to find them all along.

Yet, Eddie still feared that he was missing something. Yes, he had his friends. Yes, they had fun, even though there were times where Eddie wanted to pinch Richie’s nose, and days he really wished Bill would stop asking him to go to these scary please, and times he especially hated when Stan pretended he was grounded so he wouldn’t have to hang out with them. He loved them, and he knew they loved him, and still, he wanted more. 

More of what, he didn’t know, until Bill insisted the new kid, Ben, sit with them at lunch so that he wouldn't have to be alone. Until Richie introduced Beverly as his girlfriend (she wasn’t, but he really got a kick out of telling everyone that she was) and then, she was there, apart of them, one of them. Until the home-schooled kid, Mike, transferred to Derry Middle right smack at the end of the first semester, and then it was Eddie, offering him a seat at their table, and if he wasn’t too embarrassed of them, a permanent spot in their makeshift little club. 

Just like that, four turned into five, then into six, and then it was seven—“Lucky number seven!” upon Richie’s insistence—and Eddie got all he ever wanted. Not just friends, but a family, one that he chose, that they all chose; a family that he knew he would always belong to, no matter what. With them in his life, and him in theirs, living in Derry was a lot less miserable, but tolerable, maybe even enjoyable if he let himself forget everything else but them. With six more hearts, big and yearning but burdened like his, the things he thought set him apart were what made him fit. The secret dreams he had been so certain were destined to always be that, a secret, seemed more tangible than they ever had. 

Six hearts, six souls, all with the same strong will to get as far away as fast as they could, together or apart, but still knowing and loving each other, still doing it all the same, understanding that it would be because they knew each other that they could ever hit the ground running, that they could ever make it out and never look back, not even to make sure nothing was left behind. It was them, his friends—his only friends and the only friends he ever wanted—that made it all easier, if not all then at least the most of it. Made his lousy life in this lousy town with all it’s lousy people and lousy buildings and lousy secrets seem like a bump in the road as opposed to a sinkhole. All of them together—it was the one good thing Derry, Maine had ever offered to him, though it was more like a cookie jar on top of the fridge he was never meant to reach, instead of a gift he was meant to find.

Eddie loves his friends more than he loves anything, loves the sound of their laughter and the feeling he gets whenever he’s with them, like he will never be as complete as he is in those moments, like he was made for them and them for him. It’s a kind of love he was never sure he would know, or thought he deserved, ‘cause who could love him like that—how could anyone love him like that? 

Growing up, those years between his dad’s death and before he met Bill on the first day of third grade, little Eddie Kaspbrak thought love came only in the shapes of Band-Aids and stethoscopes, sounded like “I won’t let anything happen to you, Eddiebear” and “all a boy needs is his Ma,”, felt like swallowing a pill and lathering on two layers of sunscreen even in the middle of wintertime. It wasn’t till he met Bill and Stan and Richie, and later Bev and Ben and Mike, that he realized love was nothing like any of the things he spent so long thinking it had to be. He learned that love was shaped not into something, but by something—whether it be a second pack of fruit snacks, the extra sugary kind, just for him since his Ma was convinced it would give him some sort of cancer, or a gentle touch on his shoulder through one of his episodes, no words of panic or frantic calls to the hospital, just a gesture to say “I’m here,” or even a stolen smile across a dark room in the dead of night, when they were supposed to be asleep but Richie needed to know what Eddie’s most embarrassing memory was.

“You already know,” had been Eddie’s tired response, “our World War II presentation in—”

“—Richner’s class?” Richie interrupted, because of course he knew the answer. He knew the answer to every question about Eddie. Had since they were ten and spent nearly every waking moment together the summer Bill and Stan went away to different camps for two months. _“Best summer ever,”_ Richie had said to Eddie any time it was mentioned, long before he even knew what it meant. 

“Was it really that bad?” 

Frowning into the dark, Eddie glared up at Bill’s ceiling fan. “Greta posted that picture of my open zipper on Twitter, Richie,” he muttered. “Everyone saw it.” 

Richie had giggled, literally giggled, as if Eddie’s turmoil was something to giggle about. 

“And your Spider-Man boxers.” 

Red in the face, Eddie put a pillow over Richie’s face instead of responding, embarrassed, and kind of angry, but the second Richie’s fingertips poked into his ribcage, tickling him, any and all thoughts of annoyance were replaced by those of a softer nature, ones that sounded an awful like “I love him,” but were drowned out by the sounds of their stifled laughter. 

He knew he loved Richie, he could just barely remember a time before he did, but he was in love with him, too. How he let it happen, he could never be sure, but it did and it was there and it was not anything he could ignore. For the second time in his life, he felt the world shift, similar in how he could sense the very way the atmosphere deviated from sour and closer to sweet, like honey, or sentimental, like the last day of summer. 

Fifteen taught Eddie a lot; he ran faster on dirt than on pavement, he really didn't mind Shakespeare, and when Richie held his face in the midst of a joke about him running a fever, he didn't mind so much the way his hands felt against his cheeks. 

Similar to then, when he was young and gullible, he could only sit idly by as the gravitational pull dragged him closer to Richie. Willing or not, he was along for the ride. This was a one way trip, he was aware. As well as he was young, confused and a little scared, lost in the splatters of freckles on Richie’s reddened cheeks as if they were stars in the night sky. Unlike then, when it was mid-January and the trees were bare and the grass was dead, it had been late autumn, early November—Veteran’s Day—and the air was crisp but not harsh, the kind of cold that made walking inside a warm house feel like a hug. They were given the day off and the pair had made use of it by dedicating their time to checking each other’s homework and helping where it was needed. For the better part of the day, they stayed in Richie’s small but indisputably cozy bedroom, sitting across one another on his unmade bed. 

Substantially, nothing about the day had been special. They critiqued each other’s work, took breaks when needed, and talked idly about things that mattered and things that didn’t. When Richie spoke, Eddie listened. 

It was a typical, usual RichieandEddie Day, until it wasn’t. 

Eddie swore he didn't know when or how, but he did, because it was not like it was something he could ever just let himself forget. One moment, Eddie was looking at Richie, listening intently as he rambled on about something or other, and then he wasn’t just looking. He was gazing, fantasizing, the whole nine-yards. Wondering, imagining, dreaming. A million and one what ifs floating around in his mind like particles of dust in a beam of light: _What if he’s thinking it, too? What if I grabbed his hand? What if I kissed him? What if he kissed back? What if, what if, what if?_

Maybe it should have frightened him, but it was no secret to Eddie that he thought about boys the way he was told he should think of girls. The fact that he was gay was something he knew from the moment he let Erica Abernathy kiss him for three seconds during Truth or Dare in the eighth grade. As terrifying as it had been then, to realize that while he thought girls were pretty, he didn't much like the thought of kissing them, or holding their hands, it was the one thing he knew he couldn’t run from. And he didn’t really want to run from it, either. Strangely, though the revelation had sent him into sheer panic and the moment it happened he stood straight up and ran, ran as fast he could out of Hunter Crosby’s living room and to the park on Second Street, where he hid in the stuffy slide until Richie and Beverly came to rescue him, it was the one thing he felt was his. The one thing he had, that he could control, make his own. 

The only people that knew were his friends. Naturally, he told Richie and Beverly, because they were there when he was hyperventilating in a germ infested slide when they were supposed to be having fun at Hunter’s party. 

“I think I’m gay,” he cried, scared, but not of them. Never of them.

“Hi Gay, I’m Richie,” Richie said at the same time Beverly laughed and patted his head. 

She helped him out of the slide, smoothed his hair back and pulled him into a tight hug. “I love you.” She whispered it into his ear, sending the words right to his brain, where he packed them away deep in his hippocampus, only pulling them out when he needed them the most. 

The rest of the Losers found out in good time. Eddie told them when he felt it was right, after he took some time to sort through his emotions and deal with them accordingly. Everyone was okay with it. They loved him. They supported him. He never once suspected anything otherwise, but it was still nice to know that next to nothing had to change. 

Well, till everything did. Similarly, Eddie would love to pretend he didn't know the exact day, time, and date that it happened, but it, like all of his life-altering events, tucked itself away into his brain where it would stay forever, safe and sound. In truth, he knew very well the precise moment that _Just_ Richie became _His_ Richie and he stopped wondering what Richie was doing and started wondering if Richie was thinking of him in the same way. 

And then his crush turned into a little something more than that, and then Something More molded into More Than Something More, and soon it was love, or what Eddie could only assume was love, but the kind of love you fall into, not the kind that comes naturally, easily. No, this love was sudden, entirely different from the love he already had for his loud, gangly, ridiculous best friend; this love was new, naive but not unknowing, nervous and unsure, light and innocent, but still cautious, still anxious. Because this was Richie Tozier, his best friend, the Richie he had known for a little more than half his life, the Richie that lent his Pokémon cards to him after only knowing him for two days, the Richie that watched The Exorcist with him for the very first time and let Eddie cling to him through all the gory parts, that kept spare packs of Little Debbie’s Nutty Bars and S’mores Pop-tarts in his pantry just for him—it was Richie and then It Was Richie, and Eddie didn't even try to put up a fight. The battle was lost before it had even begun, and maybe Eddie didn’t want to fight anymore.

Perhaps he shouldn’t have, but he let himself see Richie in a whole new light, a spotlight traded out for golden rays of sunshine, a soft yellow glow like the sunset on a cool autumn evening. Allowed his heart room to grow in his chest whenever Richie looked at him, touched him, spoke to him, in _that_ way, the way that made his stomach twist like a vine and his nerves snap like a branch. When it first began, Eddie had feared that any interaction with his best friend would leave him blubbering like a fish out of water, his mind a thoughtless void now that he had acknowledged his fixations. 

However, he was happy to find that almost nothing was different than it had been before. Despite the inevitable hammering of a hyperactive heart against his sternum, and the at times electrifying hum of blood coursing through his veins, Eddie was able to navigate through everyday life as if everything was totally fine and normal, and of course he didn't have a crush on anyone. _In Derry? Impossible. Oh, Rich, you got a piece of fuzz in your hair. Don’t move, I’ll get it._

Life went on, and before any of them knew it, they were sixteen and driving their parents’ cars, or, rather, Richie, Mike and Stan were, and then it seemed as if they were always driving somewhere. Whether it be school, or the mall in Bangor, or the museums; they jumped at any chance they could to get out of Derry, if even for a little bit. 

And then Richie insisted on being Eddie’s chauffeur, so long as Eddie did the maintenance, or so he claimed, and though Eddie had thought it impossible, they were together more than they were apart. With the help of Wentworth Tozier’s ’97 Volkswagen Jetta, Richie carted Eddie all over town. Even with no destination in mind, they drove, windows down and music up, a borrowed Fleetwood Mac disc in the CD player. Late at night, early morning, midday, dusk or dawn, any hour of any day, it never mattered, because Eddie would have followed Richie wherever, whenever, Jetta or not. 

In a way, the Jetta was Eddie’s first car, too. Considering when something went wrong, he came up with a diagnosis, and it was him who fixed it (aside from the time Richie put the car in drive instead of reverse, and crashed into the stop sign on Main Street, leaving his front bumper hanging by a thread.) Eddie didn’t like most things that entailed sweat, dirty hands and a dirty face, but working on cars was something of a sixth sense to him. Ever since he was young and he would spend the summers up in Michigan with his Aunt Irene and Uncle Oscar, fixing up their neighbor’s cars in the garage. In spite of not visiting since he was thirteen, the experiences kind of stuck, and when Eddie took an auto-mechanic class his sophomore year, the passion came back, just in time for his friends to get their permits. And since Sonia refused to take Eddie to get his, he lived his First Car memories vicariously through his friends. 

Once, on a particularly cold, winter day, Richie had managed to coerce Eddie out of his room and surprised Eddie by vacating the front seat, instead taking Eddie’s usual spot in passenger. 

“Buckle up, buttercup,” Richie had grinned at him, eyes alight with a mischievous gleam, “you’re learning how to drive.” 

At first, there was a lot of protest. Eddie didn’t have a permit, had never been behind the wheel of a car in his life—the time his cousins made him drive their tractor did not count—and, more importantly, his mother would kill him if she ever found out. All it took for Eddie to comply was a pouty lip and some begging, and then he was driving at a steady five miles per hour down the empty streets of his neighborhood. Arguing was pointless because Richie had made up his mind a long time ago.

“You know, if we get caught, we’ll both get arrested,” Eddie said as he approached a stop sign, hitting the break harder than he meant to and nearly sending Richie out of the windshield. 

Richie, who was doing a shit-job at disguising his apprehensions, turned to him with an unstable, yet encouraging smile. 

“Good thing you’re driving better than me already,” he said, “‘cept that would be a gnarly story.” 

Eddie scoffed, too afraid to do it in Richie’s face and move his eyes from the road, so he kept forward, checking the roads several times before pressing the gas. 

“That I would never get to tell, ‘cause I’d be dead. You’re lucky my mom wasn’t home when you picked me up. If she’d’a seen me get in the car with you, we’d both be—” 

“—dead.” Richie interrupted, his stupid smile evident even in his tone. Eddie wanted to kiss it right off him. “How romantic,” he swooned in his seat. “We’d be like Romeo and Juliet!”

“Juliet’s mom didn’t kill Juliet. Or Romeo,” Eddie argued, now absentmindedly turning down the corner of some street he hardly recognized. He was surprised to find how naturally driving came to him. Though he had never driven before, that didn’t exactly matter. He knew cars well enough. 

In consideration, Richie raised his brows, smirking as he remarked, “some would argue that their parents were complicit in their deaths.” And even though he said that with the sole intent of being irritating, Eddie laughed until he snorted, and then they had to pull over, because they couldn’t catch their breath and Eddie didn’t really feel like going to the hospital that day. 

Finding that driving with Richie was more soothing than it was distracting, Eddie consciously decided then and there that he didn't want anybody else in the passenger seat, telling him what signal to use when, where to turn and how to gauge how much pressure he needed to put on the pedals. So, after almost no discussion at all, Richie became Eddie’s Driver’s Ed teacher, and they drove around every empty parking lot and open road in Derry. 

Throughout the process, after months of (illegally) practicing with Richie and taking every practice test, Eddie found the courage to sit his mother down (read: join her in the living room and mute the TV) and demand that she take him to get his permit. With absolutely no fear, he told her that he would not hesitate to go about emancipating himself if she continued to deny him of what he described as his “right as a human being.” She didn't take to his dramatics too well, and maybe she was simply tired of hearing him talk about it, but she relented, and on the first day of Spring Break, took him to take his permit test. 

A small step, but a step nonetheless, and with his permit, Stan and Mike agreed to let him drive their cars from time to time. As long as it wasn’t on a main road and there were no cops present. 

But Eddie favored the Jetta over all, and maybe it had everything to do with the fact that it meant he would get to spend time with Richie, but that was not information he had to disclose to anyone other than himself. Evidently, it only served as fuel to the fire he had been kindling for almost two years, then, but Eddie insisted he knew what he was getting himself into. Yes, he was in love with Richie. Yes, he knew the chances of it being forever unreciprocated. Yes, he could handle it. 

Or so he thought, before It Happened. 

‘It’ was what started as an average summer day. The Losers had planned a trip to Acadia National Park, and with a meticulous plan that Stan had gone as far as to script, were to spend the night at a hotel near the park using Beverly’s aunt’s credit card. Prior to and during the trip, they were all on edge, worried that something would fall through. Richie and Bill even bet Mike and Ben that some kind of disaster would ruin everything, and they’d either a) get caught, b) get caught and then arrested, or c) die. 

Unfortunately for Richie and Bill, none of the above occurred and they survived the trip pretty much unscathed, costing them ten bucks. Aside from the occasional argument on the drive up, expected bickering during a hike down to Echo Lake, and ceremonial fights over where to eat, their trip went smoothly, and quickly earned its place as one of Eddie’s favorite memories with his friends. 

At the hotel, they drank from one of the vodka bottles Richie had succeeded in buying off some guy he knew from work, and played whatever games they could manage in a hotel room, once they divided into their usual teams: Bill, Mike and Ben on the first, Stan and Beverly the second, and naturally, Eddie and Richie. On the little table they were provided, they played beer pong and then Beverly’s favorite, Chandelier Cup, and not much time passed before they were drunk enough to find coherent conversations difficult, and the drinking games turned into hugging each other and sitting wherever it was convenient. 

The seven of them were sitting on the blue and gold patterned carpet of the main room when the Thing he mentioned before Happened and changed Eddie’s life as he’d known it. He was lent up against Richie’s comfortably warm shoulder, fingers in Bev’s hair as he attempted what he swore to her was a french braid, as the rest of their friends giggled amongst themselves about things Eddie cannot remember. It was nice. Everything was okay. Everything was right. Then, it wasn’t. 

One moment, he was entirely focused on threading strands of Bev’s hair together, repressing all thoughts regarding the immense security just touching Richie brought him, and the next, he was face first in a yellowing toilet bowl, throwing up his dinner.

But that wasn’t the part that mattered. Gross, definitely, but not life-altering. Sure, it was certainly disorienting that he was in the living room just a second ago, and then somehow materialized in the bathroom, even more so how quickly the room was spinning when he had been pretty sure their hotel had not been swept up in a tornado like Dorothy’s house in _Wizard of Oz._

For a good ten minutes, Eddie threw up until his stomach relaxed and he could talk without gagging. When he promised Beverly that he was done and was not going to puke on her, she wiped his face clean with one of her makeup wipes, and propped him up against the wall. She sat beside him and kept a soft, reassuring hand on his arm as if to remind him that he wasn’t alone, and a few minutes of silence passed between them. 

“Where’s Richie?” Eddie asked after a while, and if Beverly was surprised by it, she didn’t show it. 

“Laying in bed with Mike,” she told him. “They’re watching the Hallmark channel.”

Eddie didn't respond. Things were quiet again, but the thoughts in his mind were close to deafening. All of them surrounding the one person that always took precedent: Richie, Richie, Richie, where’s Richie? What is Richie doing? What is Richie thinking? Accompanying them, the traditional, _I love him. I love Richie. I’m gonna love him all my life._ Always thoughts, never words spoken aloud, and then:

“I think I am gonna be in love with Richie forever.” Eddie slurred through hiccups, to no one in particular, nearly forgetting that Beverly was sitting right beside him, admitting something he fought tirelessly to hide for the last two years. Several seconds went by before the barely sober part of himself recognized that the words he’d just heard weren’t thoughts, but words he had actually said out loud. Stomach a whirlwind, he turned to look at Beverly, but she was not looking at him. She was looking up and over him, at the door. 

Slowly, like if he moved any faster someone would shoot him dead, Eddie followed her gaze, praying to God it was Ben, or Stan, or literally anybody but the person he feared it was. 

As luck would have it, the eyes he met were not the eyes of a perplexed Stanley or mildly alarmed Ben, but instead, a very sober looking Richie Tozier. For what seemed far longer than just one moment, the world stood very, very still. Eddie blinked up at Richie, dumbfounded and stunned, silently praying that he hadn’t heard what he just unknowingly confessed externally, and Richie blinked right back, as Beverly gaped between them, all three of them missing the words they needed.

And then, Eddie threw up right there on the bathroom floor.

Somehow, using willpower that he never knew he possessed, he survived the rest of the trip. The next morning, Richie didn’t mention the Thing from the night before, nor did Beverly, and so Eddie was determined to pretend as though it never happened. It was their secret now, and Eddie hoped to God that it would die with them. Because his feelings for Richie were never a topic he wanted to discuss, never thought he would need to; he was perfectly okay existing alongside them, aware of them but living comfortably. Which might’ve been a lie he used to keep himself afloat, seeing as the alternative was drowning in them without a lifeboat or any way of resurfacing once the current pulled him under, but it was safe. With it, he could lock it all up and toss away the key.

Eddie came out when he was thirteen. Richie accepted that. All of his friends did. When Beverly announced that she was bisexual their sophomore year, everyone understood. Richie was ecstatic. Last year, when Mike said, “Guys, this is my boyfriend Julien”, they were all smiles, Richie with the brightest of all. A small, foolish part inside Eddie hoped that he would be next. But it was a pipe dream, because for all he knew, Richie was straight. He liked boobs and girls and watched straight porn, he even had a poster of Megan Fox from _Transformers_ hanging up on his ceiling. That was all the proof Eddie needed. Richie was as heterosexual as they came. And Eddie was in love with him. Gay Eddie was in love with a very, very Straight Richie. It was what it was. 

There was no use in crying over it. He had accepted that a long time ago, and he’d done so as easily as he had accepted his feelings. It was just another thing he was going to have to deal with, and deal with it he did, because it wasn’t like anyone else knew. The whole having-a-massive-crush-on-my-best-friend-Richie ordeal was his secret and his alone. Something he had to work through on his own. Something he was working through on his own.

Then he went and screwed it all up by drinking way too much Smirnoff and running his fucking mouth. Which, come to think of it, was all kind of ironic, since Richie was the notorious motor mouth of the group. Talking a lot and saying too much; that was his job. He did it well. Eddie didn't need to do it for him.

And yet.

On the way home, Eddie sat in the back with Ben, carefully avoiding Richie at all costs. He pretended not to notice that Richie had been doing the same. The drive was silent. Stan put on a Mumford and Son’s album and almost everyone fell asleep. Eddie tried, but it was little difficult with all the shit in his head. It didn’t help that he had a massive hangover, feeling like someone had taken all of his organs and intestines, yanked them out and then put them back inside, but in all the wrong places. Shitty. He felt shitty. For more reasons than all the junk he vomited up last night.

An hour or so later, they were back in Derry. Stan dropped Eddie off last, leaving them in a weird silence that told Eddie more than he wanted to know:

Everyone knew what happened. Everyone had known for a while. No one knew if Richie knew. No one was going to tell him what he didn't already know. 

_Okay, cool_ , Eddie thought, _except I already did and now things are weird. Awesome._

As soon as Stan pulled into his driveway, he bolted. Didn’t give so much as a goodbye or a thank you. Didn’t glance back to wave and watch him drive off. He just ran inside as fast as he could. He couldn’t remember the last time he had been so eager to go home. 

Probably never. 

“No running in the house, Eddie! You’ll slip and break your ankle!” was his mother’s only greeting. Good. He didn’t want to talk. All he wanted to do was lock himself in his bedroom, roll up into a ball, and cry until he couldn't cry, couldn't feel, couldn't think. And cry he did, until he fell asleep and woke up to another day. 

Very still, Eddie laid on his back and blinked up at the white canvas of his ceiling. Thinking of everything and nothing. Feeling indebted to summer because it meant he did not have anywhere to be, anything to do, or anyone to see. If he wanted to stay in his room and waste away as he did nothing but wallow in his misfortunes, he could, and so he did. 

For two days, he only left his room when absolutely necessary. On the third, his mother threatened to take him to the emergency room, so he forced himself to leave the house, if only to get away from her. After wandering the town aimlessly for what had to have been hours, Eddie wound up at the Tozier’s front door. 

Which brings him here and now, where he has spent the better part of ten minutes, an absurd amount of time, staring blankly at the yellow door in from of him. Nothing and everything on his mind. He makes no move to knock, no effort to leave. He _does_ nothing. Though it is undoubtable why he is even here in the first place. It was no accident that his legs lead him to Richie’s door, regardless how the very though of facing him after The Incident makes his chest ache. However, it seems the rest of him does not care about the way he feels. Whatever fears and apprehensions he may have about seeing Richie have little to no importance. This is something he has to face, no matter the cost. 

Though, nothing is forcing him to be here. Just his integrity and the regret that has been following him around like a storm cloud for the past couple days. He could, for how long time will allow, avoid this whole thing. Procrastination in the name of self preservation. Actually, come to think of it, there is nothing to stop him from leaving, turning away and walking down the steps without so much as a glance back. Let all the things dancing on the tip of his tongue unsaid, leave all the words unsaid dead between his teeth. He doesn’t have to do this. Not really. Running is still an option. 

Just as he is about to convince himself that this can wait, he can leave it for another day, his arm moves against his own volition, and his balled fist raps against the wooden door, giving him absolutely no choice.

Before he can gather his senses and bail, the door swings open and Eddie’s heart stops dead in his chest. Compelled to close his eyes, he fights against it and winces instead, heart thumping wildly against the confines of his chest. His eyes are open, but they find the floor. They won’t budge, petrified by fear. He doesn’t want to look anyway, too afraid of who he’ll see if he does. If he does, he will have to face the inevitable. 

Fully prepared to hear the repulsed voice of his best friend, Eddie’s back stiffens when the voice that greets him is not the one he had been dreadfully anticipating.

“Oh, Eddie! What a surprise! Here for Rich, I’m guessing?” comes the sweet sound of Maggie Tozier’s voice, easy and soft like it always had been. 

It brings Eddie comfort, and conversely, an overwhelming sense of sheer panic. _What if Richie overheard her? What if Richie knows he’s here?_ He is probably standing behind the door, frantically shaking his head at his mother and telling her to send Eddie away. Eddie would not be surprised if Richie never wanted to see or speak to him again. He would understand.

Maggie stares at him, patiently awaiting an answer. But Eddie can’t bring himself to. Like a fish that had been slapped onto the dock of a boat, Eddie’s mouth bobs open and closed, mind blank and tongue caught in his throat. He has no answer for her. He isn’t there for Richie, but he is, technically, because why else would he wander all the way over here? 

“No,” he replies dumbly, after a few unbearable seconds passed by. 

Maggie furrows her brows at him, clearly confused. That makes two of them. 

“You sure?” she asks him warily, and Eddie doesn’t particularly enjoy the careful way she is watching him. Like she knows something he doesn’t. It makes his skin itch.

Eddie swallows the uncomfortably hard lump in his throat and tries again, “No, erm, I mean, yes. I’m sure. I-I don’t know,” he sighs, shoulders sagging. “Is he home?”

The hidden smirk on Maggie Tozier’s face does not go unnoticed. 

“He’s just up in the loft,” she tells him before disappearing into her house, leaving Eddie alone at the front door, seconds away from exploding into a million little pieces on their property. 

In the maybe two minutes that he stands there, cemented in place, Eddie’s entire life flashed before his eyes. Or, rather, his entire life with Richie. From the very first day Eddie saw him across the field, chasing after Stan with a beetle in his dirt-stained hands, to present, the last time they saw each other, eyes unblinking in the doorway of the hotel bathroom; the first time they looked at each other and Eddie hadn't even the slightest inclination to what Richie was thinking. 

It had been three days since they had last seen each other, since they’d spoken. Probably the longest time that they hadn’t communicated with each other, some way or another. Eddie thinks that the only other time in their friendship that they went this long without speaking was when they weren’t friends. When Richie was just a name Eddie heard during roll call. When neither meant a thing to the other; just another face in the crowd. 

Since they were eight, they shared everything. Comics, video games, awful jokes, whatever they could they did. When Eddie got his Nintendo DS in the fourth grade, Richie was the first person he told. They spent Christmas day in his room, taking turns trying to master the puzzles on _Brain Age_. If they were assigned a project in class, all Eddie had to do was look at Richie. They took Oceanography together, joined band together, played tetherball and four square together. To put it simply, they were as attached at the hip as science allowed them to be. 

From that first day, when Bill introduced them during recess, everything Eddie did, Richie was right there by his side, reassuring smiles and stupid jokes through it all. Eddie can hardly remember a time before Richie. He doesn’t want to.

A lifetime passes before Richie finally appears in front of him, holding onto the door so tightly his knuckles turn white, wearing the t-shirt he only ever wears when he is too lazy to do his laundry, hair an unkempt mess and glasses cleaner than they ever have been. 

The urge to look away fades. Now all Eddie can do was look. It is as if Richie is the magnet and Eddie the steel, forever bound together, so long as they are near each other.

In a moment that can only be just shy of a minute, they are silent, holding a gaze so heavy that Eddie feels it weigh down on his shoulders. The pressure enough to make his heart burst, and had it been on his sleeve as opposed to inside his chest, it would have splattered all over the Tozier’s nice porch.

Several moments coated in palpable silence come and go, composed of electric nerves and avoidant eyes. All of which Eddie spends hoping that he will not have to be the one to break it, that Richie will, tell him to leave, or ask him something irrelevant, like “seen any cool headlines lately?” Or what have it, just so Eddie will not be faced with the unavoidable truth: he ruined everything. He had something good, and it lasted too long, so naturally, he had to destroy it. Things could have been okay forever, had he not gone and fucked it all up. But as the Gods may have it, Eddie Kaspbrak is not deserving of any of it: his friends, Richie, his life with them. He was never meant to have a happy ending. Just a taste of it.

Maybe he should start with a simple “I’m sorry.” It would be true, and that might be all Richie needs to hear. A short and sweet apology to mend the friendship that Eddie broke when he confessed the one thing he was never meant to. I’m sorry I ruined everything, he could say. 

_I’m sorry I love the way you say my name. I’m sorry that I love your stupid jokes. I’m sorry you know. I’m sorry I told you._ He could say all those things, but they would all be lies, because while he is sorry for potentially wrecking one of the greatest things he has ever known, he isn’t sorry for loving Richie Tozier. If anything, he is grateful that it’s Richie he gets to love. His first love, and probably his last—it was always Richie and it always would be.

Their friends offered him love and acceptance, things he spent his younger years dreaming for. Sometimes, he thinks the sky opened up one day and sent the six of them down to Earth just for him. Derry was never a home to Eddie, it never would be. The Losers had showed him what a home should be. It didn’t have to be a place. It could be a group of people. And being with Richie, well, that felt like _coming home_. 

Being with Richie now, however, felt like someone had dropped a boulder onto his chest and left him there to suffocate and die. The cat was out of the bag and there was no putting it back. He left his cards for Richie to read, and now they were handling what had been dealt. He only wished he could make his mouth work.

Luckily, Richie’s never had a problem with that.

“There’s something I wanna to show you,” he says, quietly, and he almost sounds afraid, like it was him who went and professed his undying love for Eddie, setting off a bomb on a minefield. It isn’t at all what Eddie expects him to say, but then again, he didn't expect him to say anything at all. And anything is better than nothing.

Wordlessly, Richie walks in the front door and Eddie follows him without hesitation. They step through the hall, past Maggie and Went who are pretending not to notice in the living room, and continue up the stairs and into Richie’s bedroom. The entire way there Eddie’s heartbeat thrums loud in his ears, reminding him of how nervous he really is. He is hyperaware of everything going on around him, of how his palms sweat and his hands shake. 

Whatever Richie is planning to show him, whatever happens in the next five minutes, Eddie knows is going to change everything, again. For better or for worse, he can’t be sure, and perhaps that’s the most agonizing part of it. The not knowing. He kind of wishes someone would push him down the stairwell. It will probably be less painful than the inevitable doom he is about to face once he steps foot into the bedroom he once saw as a safe space. Now it looks akin to the gates of Hell.

Still, he follows Richie inside. Despite the unknown, despite the sting in his chest, in his stomach, in his bones. Eddie mentally prepares for the worst. Maybe it won’t be so bad. Maybe Richie is just going to sit him down, and show him his Instagram feed. 

“Look Eddie,” he’ll say, “all pretty girls and models and girls from school. I like boobs and vaginas, give it up,” and that’ll be that. They will move on from this and they can leave it in the past. 

It isn’t what Eddie wants, but it’s a reality he has to consider. Perhaps there’s an alternate universe where this goes well for Eddie. Where Richie brings him up to his room and he tells him how he’s in love with Eddie, too. Maybe they kiss after. 

Too bad he doesn’t exist in that one.

Richie leaves Eddie in the middle of his room as he opens up his closet and digs around for something. Everything is so quiet and Eddie hates it. There isn’t even music playing on Richie’s portable speaker, nothing on his T.V. They are surrounded by complete silence, and if it isn’t broken soon, Eddie might just jump out the window to save himself from impending doom. 

As he’s considering it, Richie returns, holding several books in his hands. At first glance, Eddie thinks they are just random novels, which confuses him, and then he’s scared, thinking maybe Richie is gonna chuck them at him or something. He glances around the room, searching for a shield, when Richie speaks again. 

“This shit is confidential, alright? Think CIA level secrecy. What I’m about to show you doesn’t leave this room,” he orders, and though he maintains an authoritative tone, Eddie can hear the way his words waiver. 

If he was confused before, he is at a complete loss now. Richie gets closer, and as he sits on the bed, Eddie notices that the books in his hands aren’t just regular story books. They’re yearbooks, diaries, old journals. They are stacked one after the other, in a disarray, a jumbled mess of a mountain on Richie’s lap.

Perplexed, and curious to know where Richie is going with this, Eddie takes a seat beside him on the edge of his bed. Careful not to get too close, Eddie doesn’t let himself fully rest his weight as he sits. In case he has to make a run for it or something. For a split second, he chances a glance at Richie, and when their eyes meet briefly he drops his gaze to the books that Richie has a vice grip on. 

Sighing, Richie opens the first book. 

“This is,” he exhales again, flipping to the first page, “my History notebook from third grade.” He explains, and when he picks a page he hands it over to Eddie, who gingerly takes it into his hands. 

It’s a tattered journal, worn at the edges and nearly falling apart, barely hanging onto the spiral. The page Richie left it on is covered in an array of definitions, drawings of eyeballs because they were the only thing Richie could ever draw, and random thoughts Richie probably jotted down whenever he was bored in class. All of his notebooks looked like this; they still do. Which Eddie is about to say something about, until Richie points to the top right corner of the margin. 

There, is a drawing of what Eddie thinks is supposed to be a boy. A stick figure body, but a surprisingly detailed face and head of hair that Eddie thinks resembles his hair back then. Strictly parted on the side, religiously glued down with the goopiest hair-gel his mother could find. But Eddie still doesn’t understand. So it kinda looks like him, so what? That means next to nothing. 

Richie must see the uncertainty on Eddie’s face, because without so much as another word, he flips through a few more pages and stops on another. This one is much less littered in random words and eyeballs, but is still adorned with doodles here and there. This time, however, they are of people. Or, rather, the same stick figure boy from the first page. And now he’s got a chunky fanny pack on his hip and an inhaler in his hand. So it’s him, okay. He still isn’t sure what this is supposed to mean. Richie thought Eddie was fun to draw because he was such a freak back then?

“I only drew you at first,” Richie says all of a sudden, tone distant, small, “but then…” he pauses, and then turns to the next page, “I started drawing us.” He audibly gulps, and when Eddie peaks over at him, he pretends that the blush on his cheeks doesn’t make his stomach do a front flip. 

His eyes are slow to look down at the page, but he makes it, and is stunned to see the variations of the same pair of stick figures side by side anywhere little Richie could fit them. Accompanying Eddie’s now was one with wild hair, glasses bigger than his face, and a grinning mouth that touched the edges of his circular face. Eddie can’t fight the smile that tugs on his lips. But he tries his hardest to ignore the way his insides seem to spark with energy.

Before he can comprehend what’s happening, Richie grabs the journal from him and hands him another book: their fourth grade yearbook. 

“More evidence for the jury,” Richie attempts a judicial voice, but it falters on the last note and he tries to hide it with a forced chuckle. Eddie can barely hear him, though, as his pulse drowns out all other noise. 

Out of anxious habit, Richie wipes his nose and then clears his throat, “go to um, go to your class. Miss—”

“Robertson,” Eddie finishes robotically, and his own voice surprises him. His throat is dry, like he hasn’t spoken for days. “Y’Cross my face out or something?” He jokes, but it falls flat. 

Richie only gives him a meek smile in return. The color in his face seems to have drained completely. Eddie turns his attention back to the yearbook, and flicks it open to his class. 

His eyes find his picture immediately, a reflex, surrounding the little photo a big red heart. Upon seeing it, Eddie is brought back to a much simpler time, when adults towered over them and half days were still around. The last day of school, to be exact, when Eddie ran straight to Richie during their last recess of the year, and shoved his own yearbook and sharpie in his face. 

_“Can you sign it? And don’t write H.A.G.S like Stan did, ‘cause that’s just dumb,” Eddie spoke quickly, anxiously awaiting Richie to accept his request (though it was certainly a command.)_

_“Sure thing, sugar. My John Handcock is all yours,” Richie obliged cheekily, and happily took the book with a buck-toothed grin._

_Eddie snorted, scrunching up his nose. “It’s Hancock, dummy,” he corrected with a giggle, leaning over Richie’s shoulder to read what he was signing._

_Knocking him with his elbow, Richie leaned away. “I know, dummy. And no peaking! You can’t read that until you get home,” he declared, and then sifted through the pages, searching for something. He stopped when he got to his class, and then took Eddie’s sharpie and drew a big ole heart around his own photo._

_“Hey! What are you doing?” In a full state of panic, Eddie sputtered and squeaked as he ripped his yearbook out of Richie’s grubby fingers. “Why’d you do that?” Eddie whined, fully pouting as he glared over at his friend, who was laughing so hard he was making a weird hiccuping noise._

_When he calmed down, he opened his own yearbook and went right to the page with Eddie’s class. Then, taking his own marker, he drew a heart around Eddie’s picture. Once he was finished, he capped his marker with a satisfied sigh and looked up at Eddie, beaming._

_“I dunno. You’re my best friend, and I’m yours. Right?” Richie asked innocently, blinking up at Eddie through his glasses._

_“Yeah,” Eddie had shrugged his shoulders, still unsure as to why Richie needed to deface his yearbook. “But Bill and Stan are, too. Did you draw hearts on theirs?”_

Even now, Eddie clearly remembers the almost agitated way Richie had responded, a rushed _“yeah, duh,”_ before the lunch bell rang and he darted off to assemble in line, leaving Eddie in the dust. He had always thought remarked it as a weird interaction, but he still doesn’t understand what Richie is trying to tell him by showing this to him. 

Gently, Richie takes the yearbook from him and opens it up to another page. Mr. Kaspersky, Bill’s class. There was no heart over his picture, just a star by his name. Then, Mrs. Wolff’s, and again, no heart over Stan’s picture, but a star printed next to his name. 

Clueless, Eddie returns his gaze to Richie with furrowed brows. 

“You lied,” Eddie states obviously, but has yet to catch on. None of this is making any kind of sense. 

Beside him, Richie is restless, and quickly closes the book. “Yes, and, um,” he responds hastily, grabbing for yet another yearbook. Almost frantically he rips through the pages, and Eddie notices the way his hands shake, but he doesn’t understand why. 

What does Richie have to be nervous about? What is Eddie not seeing?

“I would—well—I did it every year. Until I stopped getting yearbook’s in, like, I don’t know. Eighth grade? Anyway, I would come home and,” he shows Eddie their seventh grade yearbook, where Eddie’s picture was placed in the middle of the first page of seventh graders. It’s much tinier than their grade school photos, but Richie managed. Instead of one heart, smaller ones frame a picture of twelve-year-old Eddie, who looks exactly like nine-year-old Eddie, the only difference the braces on his teeth. 

Jittery and apparently eager to move on, Richie closes the book and pulls out three more. 

“And, and, I didn’t really use diaries and like, journals a lot. But, I had some. These ones,” he presents Eddie with a blue composition notebook and two generic journals, both a bright green color. Like the first, the edges are frayed and there are visible creases all throughout the cover, pen markings splattered over the bold lettering. 

“This one,” he gestures to the composition notebook and then opens it, “I used in uh, sixth grade, mostly. There’s a lot of weird stuff in here, hating my parents ‘cause they took my Playstation away or made me do chores. I think I tried to draw a picture of Henry sitting on me at recess once,” he rambles on and on until finally, he reaches his point, sounding out of breath: “but I wrote about you a lot. I mean, we were always together, weren’t we? I thought you were funny. I-I still do, but, back then, I used to. Uh. Steal your jokes,” he admits, looking sheepish. 

At his confession, Eddie faces him, surprised. Richie wrote about him and stole his jokes? Richie Tozier, a walking, talking Joke Almanac, stole Eddie’s dated jokes that he only ever heard from his cousins? 

“Um?” is all he can squeak out, his heart beat and beat and beat until it ended up in his throat, caught somewhere between his trachea and his tongue, wedged in so tight that it’s strictly limited his oxygen intake. 

“Yeah, I dunno, you had that one about Superman and the bar and I thought it was so funny. I used to tell it at like, all my family gatherings. It’s my family’s favorite Richie Joke. But it’s not even mine. It’s yours. But I liked it so much,” he pauses to swallow, and it looks almost painful. “I liked you so much—ah,” the words tumble out of his mouth, as if they escaped before he had the chance to stop them. Sucking in a sharp breath, Richie spares Eddie an almost ashamed glance.

Briefly, Eddie meets his gaze, and he swears he feels the whole word stop for that fraction of a second, before Richie opens his mouth and sets it in motion again.

“I mean—agh, just. We were best friends! I thought it was normal—,” stopping himself, Richie widely gestures to the books in Eddie’s possession, “—okay, here, you read this, and I’ll be over here suffocating myself. Let me know when you’re done,” and then, before Eddie can even register what is happening, Richie flops onto his back and smashes his pillow against his face.

Then, from underneath the pillow, his voice comes again: “go to the fifth page.”

Without any more hesitation, Eddie forces himself to turn his attention to the diary in his grasp, and opens it up to the fifth page. The date at the top is marked March 7th, 2010—Richie’s twelfth birthday. Briefly, Eddie chances a glance up over at Richie, or where Richie was, since he’s still hiding beneath the pillow, and frowns. What does he have to be embarrassed of? 

Reluctantly, he drops his gaze back to the diary in his hands. Once the words come into focus, it takes him about three seconds to realizes that it’s just the same thing scribbled all over the page: his name. Or rather, variations of his name.

On this first entry, Richie apparently took it upon himself to etch any nickname he had ever given Eddie throughout their friendship onto the lined page of his diary. As expected, the most frequent were “Eds” and “Eddie Spaghetti,” to which Richie adorned with hearts and a terribly drawn bowl of spaghetti. All over the page, in big blocked letters, in cursive, in squiggly letters, a series of different fonts—Richie littered the page with names Eddie still heard and others he hadn’t in years. Reading them forces Eddie to scrunch his nose, in feigned distaste. 

After a moment, he lets out a snort despite his best efforts to hold it in. His cheeks burn white hot, but not from embarrassment. 

“You didn’t even write anything about your birthday,” Eddie states plainly and sort of disappointed. 

Finally sitting up, Richie laughs and it brushes Eddie’s skin like a light breeze. 

“No. But I remember,” he reminisces, “I woke up before everyone, ‘cause you guys—”

“—spent the night after Jake’s,” Eddie interrupts him, smile tugging on his lips, “And Bill fell asleep first,” he laughs, “so we got his socks all wet and put them in the freezer.” They say the last part together, both bursting into a fit of giggles at the memory. Any tension has faded away, almost completely, but Eddie isn’t done yet. There are still two pages left. The thought gnaws on his conscience, but not anxiously, in anticipation. Their lives have already changed, but whatever Eddie reads next will solidify it. Hold it in place. And then he won’t have to wonder anymore. Everything will make sense.

Maybe.

“Anyway,” Richie starts once he catches his breath, “I was obviously bored, and I didn’t have anything else better to do. Plus, you were like, on top of me so I couldn’t go anywhere really. This was on my dresser so I just grabbed it and started doodling.” 

“Woah,” scoffing, Eddie narrows his eyes. “I was not on top of you!” 

“Eds, you’re like a damn koala in your sleep. Ask everyone. I have witnesses,” Richie counters, suppressing a laugh. 

At that, Eddie rolls his eyes. “At least I know how to share covers.”

“What’s that supposed to mean!”

“It means sharing a bed with _you_ means I’m going to freeze to death. Why do you think I have my own blanket here? And at Bill’s? And Stan’s!”

Now it’s Richie who scoffs. “I thought that was because you were afraid of our germs or something!” 

“Yeah,” Eddie snorts, shaking his head exasperatedly, “I’ve washed puke out of your hair, but I won’t share a blanket with you ‘cause of the germs.” He deadpans, setting Richie with a heatless glare. 

“It makes—okay, this is not the point. The point, Spaghetti Head, is that I was staring at you like a little creep and wrote your name with fucking hearts in my diary,” he admits unabashedly. 

Eddie blinks up at him, a weightless feeling building in the pit of his stomach.

“There’s more. It’s long,” Richie cautions, and suddenly looks very serious. 

In lieu of a verbal response, Eddie simply nods. 

Then, he reads.

_June 14th, 2010_

_Me: *taps mic* Mic check one two! Hey, whatta crowd! How’s everyone doing today? There’s refreshments in the back, help yourselves! My name is Richie Tozier and life sucks!_

_Why does life suck? I’ll tell you, hold your horses. First, I have to tell you what I’ve been up to lately cause I honestly forgot I had you until Mags found you in my desk drawer and wanted to know why I drew a dick on the cover. I thought it was funny. She didn’t. So I had to cover it with duct tape, now you look really stupid. Sorry about that… Anyway, I wanted to tell you that I’m twelve and we started writing a lot of essays after Spring Break and now I hate pencils. And pens. I hate every writing utensil there is. That’s why I didn’t write for like five months. Also cause I’m almost a teenager and if anyone finds out I still write in my diary I’m dead meat._

_It is summer break and like I said before everything sucks. Which sucks even more since its SUMMER. Bill has been grounded ever since his parents found out that he and Georgie were raising a boat load of kittens in their back shed. And Stan is at stupid summer camp. But the worst part is that Eddie is going to Michigan FOR THE ENTIRE SUMMER. He told me two days ago and he said there’s nothing we can do about it. His mom is forcing him. I said I could use my charm to get her to change her mind but that just made him angry. Anyway, I got kinda mad at him for that because why didn’t he tell me earlier? I would’ve made other plans that didn’t involve him! Who else is gonna bike to the public pool in Bangor with me!? Bill sucks at riding Silver and Stan doesn’t even like the pool. Who is gonna play COD with me? And spend the night when my parents go out? And I was gonna bring him with us to New York when we go next month. I had a whole plan to get his mom to say yes. I’m so mad. Now this summer is going to be soooooo boring. Eddie is supposed to be my best friend!_

_I mean Bill is Eddie’s best friend, but Eddie’s MY best friend. He probably told Bill first. Whatever. I will just die of boredom I guess._

_Life sucks for lots of other reasons too. I thought I liked Claire Tanner because she told everyone that she liked me and we are dating kind of. Eddie and Stan thought it was really stupid cause we don't really talk. But she’s cute and I dunno, I haven’t had a girlfriend since Tatum in the second grade! That was five years ago! I’m getting rusty. A man needs some romance in his life. I don’t like Claire, though, which is really crappy and I guess I should break up with her. Except I don’t know why I don’t like her. She’s hot and she thinks I’m funny. What more could I ask for?_

_Eddie thinks it’s all stupid. He says none of it is real so why does it matter. We aren’t even seventh graders yet. We shouldn’t be dating girls. But I think it’s because he doesn’t know what boobs look like._

_June 16th, 2010_

_It’s me again with an update: This summer can’t be saved. Dying is probably more fun than this. I broke up with Claire over email and she told me she was gonna tell everyone my breath smells like Cheese Balls. :(_

_June 21st, 2010_

_I hung out with Bill today. It was kinda fun I guess. I miss Eddie, though. I had a dream he came over and we stayed up all night watching movies and built a fort like we used to and we shared my sleeping bag. It was the most fun I’ve had so far and it wasn’t even real. This sucks._

_P.S. I HATE EVERYTHING!!!!!_

_June 23rd, 2010_

_Hi again. I have no life and no friends to talk to so I guess that makes you my new best friend now. I bet Eddie has already replaced me with his stupid cousins. He sent me an email and all he did was talk about them and how nice his aunt and uncle are. He said he wouldn't mind living there, but only if he could bring me Stan and Bill with him. YEAH RIGHT. I still haven’t emailed him back cause I am still mad. But I miss him lots. I hid the picture of us from last Spring Break in my sock drawer so I don't have to be reminded that I’m all alone. Plus looking at his stupid dumb face makes me mad. Mom thinks I’m being dramatic. I think I’m dying._

_June 24th, 2010_

_I still haven’t emailed Eddie back. I feel like he just emailed me so he could brag about how much fun he’s having without me in stupid dumb smelly boring Michigan. He’s so annoying! Also I keep having dreams about him coming home, which is also annoying, cause then I wake up and he isn’t actually here. I didn’t think I would miss him THIS much. I think there’s something wrong with me._

_I think it’s just cause he’s my best BEST friend and Derry really sucks without him and Bill and Stan. It double sucks without Eddie here. I wish he would come home already. I miss hanging out with him. He is the only one who has jokes that are almost as good as mine. Don’t tell him I said that, though… I’m gonna go listen to Break Even by the Script._

_P.S. I put the picture back up. I like having it out better_

By the time Eddie finishes, he is more confused thank he thinks he ever has been, and maybe a little bit frustrated. Perhaps there is a lot he just isn’t seeing, or isn't letting himself see. All this is doing is reiterating what Eddie already knows, what he’s known all along: 

They are best friends. They have always been best friends, and that is all they will ever be. 

Still underneath his pillow, Richie has gone completely silent. His hands are pressed into the pillow, shoving it down onto his face as he hides from Eddie. He can’t even bring himself to face him in rejection. It ignites a fire deep in Eddie’s soul that he can no longer ignore. 

Ripping the pillow of his grasp, Eddie scolds him, “knock it off!” He narrows his eyes at his friend, who has his eyes shut tight and his face all bunched up like he smelled something rotten. 

“I didn’t come over here to be an accessory to your murder,” Eddie grumbles, growing impatient. They were meant to have a serious conversation, not a surprise trip down memory lane. Both of them are stalling, and Eddie doesn’t want to waste time anymore. He only wants things to go back to normal. Whatever point Richie is trying to make, Eddie thinks he gets it. He understands. But now, it’s his turn to make Richie understand. 

Richie slowly opens one eye, giving up his charade as he looks at Eddie hesitantly. “I know, Eds,” he admits earnestly. “I’m trying to tell you—”

“—that we’re always going to be just friends.” Eddie interrupts him, fighting hard to hide the bitter edge in his voice. “I know, Rich,” he sighs, casting his eyes down to the blue quilt they’re sitting on top of. He picks at the stitches, avoiding Richie’s stare completely. If he wants to say this without bursting into tears, he can’t look at him. It will hurt to much. So, he continues, this time speaking to the quilt, although the words are meant for Richie and Richie only. 

“I have known since the day I…” _fell in love with you_ , his brain supplies, but he bites his tongue, won’t let himself say it out loud, not here. Not now. 

“I’ve felt this way for a while, Rich,” he continues, “probably even before I realized it. But when I did, I knew what it meant. And that’s okay, because, because, because…” he stutters as hurt bubbles up all the way into his chest, making it hard to breathe. The pain seizes his heart in his chest and the rest of his organs to with it. Taking a deep breath, he tries again.

“Because you’re Richie, you’re my best friend. And I always want you to be, so it’s okay that you don’t feel the same way. Really. I never expected you to, okay? And I never wanted you to find out, because I didn’t want to ruin everything, but obviously you did and I just came over here to say that I’m sorry. I’m sorry I told you that I…” and the rest of his words die on his tongue, shrivel up and dissolve into nothing. The pinch in his throat is taut and he knows that if he allows himself to look at Richie now, the tears welling up in his eyes are bound to turn his face into their very own riverbed. 

Cautiously, Richie resumes his sitting position and turns his body toward Eddie’s, but Eddie does not relent. He will not look at him. He can’t. 

“You’re… sorry?” Richie asks, his tone coated with doubt. 

Eddie sniffles and shrugs his shoulders in lieu of a response. He isn’t sure what there is to say anymore. 

The air between them is silent, then, for a moment or two, before Richie shifts, and breaks it with a noisy exhale. 

“All this time, and I thought I was the idiot,” he says before he starts to laugh, which breaks Eddie’s heart in an entirely different way. Richie has laughed and made jokes at his expense before, but never like this. Never about something this serious. 

If the floor opened up and swallowed him whole right now, he wouldn’t mind. He can’t remember the last time he felt this humiliated. But he’s done letting the feeling consume him. Instead, he lets it fuel him. 

Furious and feeling an overwhelming urge to defend himself, Eddie springs up from the bed and glares ferociously down at Richie, who is no longer laughing. 

“I’m gonna leave,” he spits, and makes to do exactly what he said he was going to do: Leave. If he is in this room a second longer, he might combust. He gets two steps away before something grabs him by the elbow and yanks him back.

“You’re a dumbass.” Richie snorts, “Eddie, I’m trying to tell you something! Duh! If you would just listen with those big ears of yours—,”

“Get fucked, _Dick_!” Eddie growls as he wretches his arm out of Richie’s grasp. His whole body burns with anger and embarrassment, molten lava coursing through his veins. “Maybe if _you_ listened—,” 

A loud and drawn out grown interrupts him. The fire in his chest builds. Then, faster than he can comprehend, Richie hops to his feet and clutches onto Eddie’s shoulders. Still approaching maximum fury, Eddie opens his mouth to spit some not very nice words in Richie’s stupid smiling face, but doesn’t get past the first vowel, because Richie leans down and kisses him on the mouth. Which, to say the least, is not at all what Eddie expected, and it takes his brain way too long to reboot and kick itself into gear. 

He has just barely started to kiss him back when Richie springs backward, fingernails digging into the material of Eddie’s t-shirt. His cheeks are red and blotchy, eyes large and pupils blown. The expression on his face reads both excited and terrified. Eddie isn’t sure what he feels. Every cell in Eddie’s body screams, because what the fuck just happened and how is he still in tact after _that_? 

There is no time to waste evaluating it, however. Somehow he manages to push all of his burning questions aside and musters up the only will power he has left and uses it all to push him forward and put his lips on Richie’s again. 

They meet in the middle, and something stronger than electricity pulses through him, rejuvenates him. They kiss longer this time, breaking apart only to breathe, holding onto each other like a lifeline. The feeling of Richie’s lips on his is strange and new but good and right, as if their mouths were two pieces of the same puzzle, made only for each other. There is a butterfly exhibit right in the middle of Eddie’s stomach, each of them fluttering freely, not carelessly, filling him until he’s whole. Kissing Richie is as scary as it is liberating, the tension in his muscles fading with every passing second. A thought strikes Eddie then, in the heat of it, they’re kissing. Eddie is kissing Richie, and Richie’s kissing him back, it’s not their first kiss, but it’s their first kiss, together, in Richie’s room; his childhood bedroom, where they spent days and nights and in between, talking, laughing, being. 

When they finally pull away, Eddie swears the sun hangs a little lower in the sky. How much time has passed, he isn’t sure, but he doesn’t mind, not when Richie is looking at him like that, holding him this way, like he’s waited his whole life for this moment. And for the first time, Eddie considers that maybe he has. That must have been what he had been trying so desperately to tell him earlier, a subtle hint to point him in the direction he thought they’d never go. It’s quite possible that through all of his own torment, Richie was there alongside him, experiencing it, too, but in his own way. That was never an outcome Eddie saw possible, not until Richie grabbed him by the shoulders and proved that it was.

After several seconds of watching each other with baited breaths, the tension breaks between them and dissolves into nothing, and all that’s left to do is smile at one another. There is a lot that’s been left unsaid, but they have all the time in the world to say them, and Eddie is in no rush. Not anymore. Just looking at Richie, he knows. And it’s enough.

“So…” Richie murmurs, fingertips grazing the skin of Eddie’s bottom lip, “do we show each other our dicks, now?” 

Eddie punches him on the arm. And then he kisses him again, and again, and again, and the whole world falls away.

**Author's Note:**

> the end! congrats, we all have 3 brain cells left!
> 
> ok on a serious note let me know what u guys thought! i love and appreciate any (nice) feedback as well as that beautiful thing called the kudos button :')
> 
> until next time!


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